


the alliance must hold

by ninemoons42



Series: Padmé Lives to Tell the Tale [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Women, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen, Padmé Amidala Lives, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the trail of rumors that hint at even darker days ahead, Padmé confers with Sabé and Mon Mothma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the alliance must hold

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [PRojects IN Controlled Environments, version Sith](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5985655) by [BethWinter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BethWinter/pseuds/Beth%20Winter).

Slippered feet down a series of freshly-scrubbed corridors. She suppressed a sneeze at the leftover smell of caustic cleaning chemicals, dodged a pair of cleaner droids who for some reason were also armed with laser-prod attachments, and found herself in the second -- and smallest -- of the six galleys tucked into the nooks and crannies of _White Base_.

Canister in the left hand and a data pad with an attached commlink in the right. A blue-numbered chrono display hanging on the wall, right next to a rectangular porthole. A view of a gas giant banded in several shades of red, and trailing a swarm of two dozen small moons, and there was something about that view that was almost familiar. 

But the inquiry about their whereabouts could wait. First on the agenda, now that Padmé could steal a moment for herself: a proper cup of tea.

Everything in its proper place on the table nearest the cooking machines. She dropped into a chair and shivered for a moment -- she would have to pick a position near one of the cooling vents -- and after she’d chafed a little warmth back into her arms she hunted for the vessel that heated water for drinking, then retrieved a battered mug and a scooping utensil from one of the storage cubbyholes. 

Three scoops of loose black tea: and no one else, not her children, not her friends, was allowed to get at this particular canister. This was Padmé’s and no one else, one of the sparse few treasures that she could still cling to. A rare and expensive blend of carefully picked buds, best-quality spiceleaf bark, and a bare pinch of goldenmoon flowers.

It was a luxury, it could have given her away at any time, it was something she carried around with her through the days and nights of running and hiding, and it was the last link she had to her days as a queen: no one but the members and former members of the Royal House of Naboo could purchase this tea.

The canister was still a little more than half full, and already she was thinking about the subterfuge of getting more.

A series of wheezing, drawn-out chimes meant the water she’d poured into the heating vessel had come to the boil; she lunged to turn off the alarm, and began to count, careful and slow: one to fifty. Just enough time for the water’s temperature to drop to the right level. At fifty, she poured the water into her mug, to a great rush of gently fragrant steam.

Another count, longer: one to one hundred and fifty. Strong and bracing tea, and the goldenmoon flowers leaving a lingering aftertaste of sweet smoke on her tongue.

When she’d been ruler of Naboo she’d leaned on this tea through her innumerable morning briefings: it had woken her up and given her the strength to weave diplomacy and demands together.

She was more than halfway through the contents of the mug when the data pad chirped and came to life, displaying a countdown.

Padmé sighed quietly, and drank the last of her tea, and ran her hands through her hair, weaving it into three plaits.

The countdown reached zero, and there was a ping. A new message. _Incoming transmission._

She cleared her throat and looked in the direction of the commlink. “Put them through, please.”

The data pad pinged again. Flashes of blue light, stabilizing images: and then she was looking into a pair of familiar faces. Interference -- and no doubt distance -- meant that those images were grainy and indistinct around the edges. 

“It’s not that late where you are, is it?” Sabé asked. 

Padmé shook her head. “Even if it were, I would still get up for this. Your earlier messages indicated that you had information that couldn’t wait.”

“I do, and I’m not the only one,” was the reply.

The other woman on the connection held up a slim hand, wrapped in bandages. “I hope that you are well, Padmé.”

“As you’re not?” she asked, dividing her frown between her friend and the remains of her tea.

Mon Mothma grimaced -- and even that expression could only look elegant on her features. “I am well, my friend, and this is no fault of our -- ah -- shared opponents. I bear my wounds in the name of cultural understanding.”

A quiet chuckle from Sabé’s end of the connection. “What she means is, she took part in a ceremony of some kind. A ceremony that included burning coals.”

She watched as Mon Mothma pinched the bridge of her nose with her uninjured hand. “At least it was not a ceremony in which I had to _walk_ across burning coals.”

“Don’t remind me, and don’t remind Dormé,” Padmé said with a sigh. “Can we move on, instead?”

“Please,” was Mon Mothma’s reply. 

“I’ll go first,” Sabé said, and winced.

Padmé narrowed her eyes. “Out with it.”

“Understand, Padmé, Mon Mothma, I thought I was tracking down wild rumors, conspiracy theories. Too much hysteria and too little fact. Except that Fulcrum sent me a message with a very specific set of rumors that were not rumors.” Sabé took a deep breath. “The Empire claims that it is not at war, except that there are entire groups of beings who are tasked with precisely that: the games and strategies of war.”

“Not the clones,” Mon Mothma said, picking up where Sabé had left off. “Not even the beings wearing rank insignia. Independent groups working under the Emperor’s direct supervision, whether they know him to be their patron or not. Case in point, a consortium of engineering firms.”

Padmé swallowed the lump of fearful foreboding that was trying to lodge itself in her throat. “When you say _engineering firms_ you really mean _the companies that build spacecraft_ , correct?”

“Yes.”

“Sabé,” Padmé said. “Do you have any idea what the Emperor wants to build?”

“The information is scattered throughout dozens of systems,” her friend began. “Fulcrum and I are still sifting through the reports.”

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance,” Mon Mothma said. “As one of my own informants has actually _seen_ the blueprints.”

“You never said that,” Sabé said, looking as surprised as Padmé felt.

“I did not wish to inform you until I could find some form of independent confirmation. I -- I seem to have found it,” Mon Mothma said, and then Padmé clocked that her friend had turned ashen.

“Excuse my words, but -- out with it, please,” Padmé gritted out.

“A new class of Star Destroyer,” Mon Mothma said. How she managed to look composed, Padmé had no idea. “Something that outdoes the _Venator_ -class ships.”

“Because those were associated with the Jedi, with the Empire’s enemies,” Sabé said.

“The Emperor will seek to improve upon the older models,” Mon Mothma said.

“Not the Emperor,” Padmé heard herself say. She looked down at her hands, her hurting hands -- and discovered that she’d balled them into white-knuckled fists. “The idea is his, but the execution -- he will leave that to one of the most brilliant engineers the galaxy has ever seen.”

Silence, and then: “Kriff,” Sabé said, in a very small voice.

“Quite,” Padmé said. “Tell Fulcrum -- ”

“ -- that she has to look for _him_. And let’s hope the thought has already occurred to her,” Sabé said, and Padmé could see the muscles in her cheek jumping.

To Mon Mothma, Padmé said, “Is there any chance that you could send those plans to me?”

“I can do better,” was the reply. “I will send you the plans _and_ the being who confirmed their existence for me.”

Padmé nodded. “I will speak to General Kenobi about finding a safe rendezvous point.”

“That would be wise. And, Padmé, please don’t be surprised if this particular being comes heavily-armed. I will caution them about your current whereabouts, but -- perhaps for them, old habits might be hard to break.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else. Stay safe, and don’t hesitate to call upon us should you be in danger,” Padmé said.

“You must do the same,” was Mon Mothma’s reply.

Her image flickered out, and that left Padmé with Sabé.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Padmé confessed, after several long moments.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” was Sabé’s response. And: “If I went and told Breha about this, she would kick me off Bail’s staff herself and send me straight to you.”

“I confess that I would love to have you here on _White Base_ ,” Padmé said, “but I won’t ask for you. Not yet. You are in the best place to do the work that you do best. If we didn’t have that, we’d all be sunk.”

“I hear you’re turning that -- thing of yours into some kind of traveling fortress.”

“Mostly I go along with the children’s ideas -- and frankly, I’m glad and frightened of them in equal measure,” but Padmé was smiling as she said it. “I’m not sure which one of them had the bright idea to install laser-prods in the droids.”

“Are you sure it was them and not Kenobi?”

“It wasn’t him; he wouldn’t have complained if it had been his idea.”

“Maybe he wanted them to have compartments for holdout blasters instead.”

Padmé laughed. “That would have been _my_ idea.”

It was a relief when Sabé managed a smile in response. “Still thinking about the throne after all this time.”

“Saved our lives,” Padmé said.

“Yes.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Padmé could hear her friend typing, could hear the rumbling of a maintenance droid’s passage long before it actually rolled past the door into the galley.

A new message appeared on the data pad, briefly displacing the image of Sabé. 

_I have located my operative -- they confirm that they are already in your sector. Transmit coordinates for secure pickup as soon as possible. MM_

“We’ll have to get moving soon,” Padmé said. “Mon Mothma says her informant is in this sector.”

“Then be safe,” was Sabé’s reply. “If you need help, give me a shout.”

“I just hope we’re not too late yet.”

“You and me both,” Sabé said.

And when the connection had flickered into nothing, Padmé wrapped her arms around herself. 

The soothing tea was nothing more than a cold congealing memory to her, and she could take no more comfort in it.

After a long moment of fearful contemplation -- war, _again_ , how many times would the galaxy tear itself to pieces, how many times would she have to be a soldier -- she reached for the other commlink that hung from her belt. “Children?”

“Yes, Mama,” Leia said, sounding muffled. And: “Sorry. I was trying to do my hair. I had a pin in my mouth.”

“Wake everyone up and come to the second galley,” Padmé said. “We have to talk.”

“Something bad?”

“Yes,” Padmé said, gritting her teeth.

“We’ll be right there.”


End file.
